the now

it's the last day of september.  it's the rainy season. so sometimes it feels like fall which feels very normal because my internal clock says it's time for a cold dry wind to blow in and the leaves to fall.  over here by the equator, i realize how linked we are to the weather, and how lost we can be with out its patterns- at least when we were formed by them.  time is different- it's endless- things keep blooming, every month or so, leaves don't fall, things just grow and get chopped, and grow back again. 

last night was date night and mike and i went to a newish cafe before meeting our friends for dinner.  the cafe was nice, nice.  it transported me back to a restaurant you'd find in a major US city which felt really good and needed.  it was the attention to detail, the light fixtures, the choice of music- all those things that are usually not here.  so we talked about time. our times, our seasons.  we walked back through the last 20 years- the places like that cafe- that we'd sat at in different cities in different times. sonsie in boston, cafe intermezzo in atlanta, bar crudo in san francisco, leon's in decatur.  all the memories- and here we are adding to them. we felt lucky to be able to experience good things all over the world, but not need them to be happy.

it was our first night out alone in a while and this was our conclusion, that we are happy.  i don't think it was just the familiar exposed brick wall or chalkboard with the specials list.  i don't think it was the fritters, or the fries (that came in a conical shaped paper like at leon's) or even the white wine spritzer.  it was looking into the same blue eyes i've looked into for so long, knowing that we've known each other at our best and worst, we've seen each other mess up royally and we've forgiven each other,  we've watched each other grow up and do grown up things well, we've sat across from so many tables and held each others hands while looking back and looking forward- but fully enjoying the now. 

the now that is either hot and dry or soaking wet, but all the while green with leaves and bright with flowers and perfect in temperature.  the now that is sometimes lonely and can feel too different, but is always calling, and ripe with possibilities and growth and change.  the now that we jumped off the tracks for, and walked into together. the now that led us to rosie, and zoe being back in school. the now that gives us the experience of trusting God for everything, in a way we really hadn't before. this now challenges our need for seasonality and brings us the opportunity to learn a new language, and culture, and a new way of marking time. here we are living our life from upside down- but still together, across tables, after all the years.

a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

when i was fifteen, on the first day in history class, while trying to hide obscurely in the back of the classroom, my teacher called on me to explain this quote:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

it was a combined class- sophomores,  juniors and seniors.  i was a sophomore - a small and shy and unprepared one.  we were not in english class- what does shakespeare have to do with world history? i think i mumbled 'i don't know'. the senior boy behind me kept kicking my chair rhythmically and whispering, "who loves you babe?" which equally confused me.  was he making fun of me for not having a boyfriend? or did he love me? i chose to ignore him- because either way, i wasn't interested.  years later he took his own life with a shotgun and sometimes i think back to that room and that chair and i can hear his voice and i wonder who loved him?

i think back to that day, that quote.
i think about my rose.
my sweet rose.

what is in a name? what is in anything? what is a family?
what is in her name? what is her history? what will be her story?
what will be our story?

we don't know.
all we know is that we love her.  we can't take her out of the country right now. we can't go home to our other family. that we will need to go to court. that we have little control. that it remains very complicated.

when mike and i finally had a moment alone yesterday before picking up the kids, we pulled up the subject, out of that pile of unsavory topics awaiting our discussion, along with money and fundraising and master schedules.  i was reminded again why it is that i love him profoundly. because after we'd talked and come up with the various scenarios that we'd most likely be faced with about rose and her future, and i was feeling like we would be choosing from a collection of not good options, he said some very wise things, very calmly and lovingly.

he stated the facts: that the perfect classic ideal life for little rose, the norman rockwell happy family picture where everyone looks the same and has their basic needs met- had already been replaced with another one.  that the next best thing (in our limited 3 dimensional view) of her in our second tier rockwell picture, the one that includes different colors and an older girl blocking her ears next to a vacuum cleaner, but where everyone has the same last name and can all leave the country together- might not happen either.

but, he said.

we only see so far.  we see what we are used to, what is neat and well packaged.  but that the wacky, confusing, piecemeal family with new definitions? that might be exactly what is perfect for little rose.
and even for us. he said we have no idea. he said we have to do the best we can with the situation we have.  he said we'd already stepped outside of normal. that we can make a new normal and our new normal could be way beautiful. our new normal definition of a family, would become exactly what we understand our family to be. 

the situation is broken. she was born into broken.  but so was i really- we all are. we all have broken bits- and secrets and families that don't look like the rockwell scene. the funny part is that we keep trying to keep things at 'normal'.

i understand that quote now.
how things are named, or labelled can change- but the beauty in the truth of what is doesn't.
who knows how things in our life will be named, or what we will call our rose. but i think it will be just as sweet.

practicing mindfulness

Mindful

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking 
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

-mary oliver 


i think my time on this great spinning planet, might simply be to practice mindfulness. being purposefully aware of the moment; paying attention in a non-judgmental way, allowing an openness, blocking distraction, unwinding the tension i wrap around myself from the reaching pulling arms of the world. feeling.  receiving the sensory input i'm given, not just the mental.  listening to only the voice of the one speaking, not the list in my mind.  really hearing the words and what is behind the words, of whoever i'm sharing the moment with.

i practice lots of things. i'm good at practicing- much better than i am at perfecting, or arriving.  i'm a slow learner.  i practice medicine and yoga and writing. i practice prayer and stillness and i try to practice mindfulness. 

the other day i had coffee with a friend.  a woman who i'm sure has been practicing mindfulness a lot longer than i have- either that or she's a natural. you know when you are with someone who is so good at being right there- you go places- you share histories- and the connection is deep and clear and real. that is who i want to be for people.  i want to be full and life-giving, not half, not sucking energy.  i want to engage actively and share it.

life gets big and much more beautiful when we let ourselves experience it. 

the wind is quiet and blowing.  she pushes a pile of fallen leaves across the fabric roof above me.  i hear the skittering, the dancing, the edges of light organic things tap along the cloth- it's music if i let it be.  if i hear it, i can feel the air move more, i can look up and see the shadows- the pattern of leaves and acorns- it looks like the picture of universe i saw the other day- that speckled massive eternity.  my eyes follow the breeze and i watch as leaves fall from the trees near by.  because i'm here, now, watching, i see how their shape effects their falling. their descent is purposeful, ordained, unique.  someone is at the spicket, filling a bucket, it sounds like a water fall- murchison falls, the spray and power and movement.  the whole world is moving.  it's not static.  a bird sings. the sun has returned- the flowers are yellow and orange and maroon and crimson and tangerine and magenta- the greens are so many.

in my five minutes of feeling where i am- i'm filled. 
i am reminded of the goodness that surrounds.
i am thankful and blessed by it.
i am happy.  i am at peace.

over coffee and sharing, i saw her mindfulness.  the way she paused when she told of her moments- watching the sun rise over the complete lightless darkness in the village where she lived.  it was valued and appreciated - not resented, not overlooked.  the smile when she recalled the cake she ate on her husbands birthday,  even though it was the day she'd lose her daughter. only someone who openly watched that sunrise, only someone who tasted the richness of that cake and let themselves be swallowed by the joy of that morning- could find it and hold onto it - after it was buried by the greatest loss in life hours later.  she knew.  she knows. the bad, doesn't negate the good. horridness doesn't dissolve beauty.  

we will all experience what we allow ourselves to experience. most of it, is the same. but the depth and the vividness will vary.

she holds so many things- the monkey that visits her porch in the mornings, the garden of her yard- the gift of her family.  sometimes it's the great losses in life that free us to see the small things. sometimes it's the blindsiding that wakes us from our stupor, that pulls us away from the silliness of 'normal'. 

how much we have to give.  how much we have to share and cherish and savor. 
let us tread lightly.
let us be gentle.
but let us wake up and breath deeply and open ourselves to feeling this big life we've been given so it doesn't just flash before us.  let us embrace each other and hold the warmth. let us look longer and  listen carefully, and smile with our eyes.  let us cry together and laugh out loud and hold hands as we walk our paths.

night of encouragment

last night i heard it in a song. i found it in the singing- together- outside- in the light of flashlights and stars.

but last night, i didn't want to go. at. all.  i didn't want to drive into kampala for the evening and meet new people.  i wanted to say home with mike and watch the last few episodes of madmen.  i wanted to make milk tea and eat chocolate chips and peanut butter and catch up on our life together.  but i kept hearing- what are you doing here? in the back of my mind.  i felt compelled.  something was being offered- something was before me- go.

so i did.  it was a "night of encouragement" for women serving in uganda.  and i needed encouragement- clarity- renewal of purpose- missional vision.  i needed to be reminded and inspired and made small again.  and i was.

we ate.  we introduced ourselves briefly- all 50 of us.  quickly i was reminded and inspired.  i felt very small and young and early in a long process.  i tried not to feel jealous and disorganized and lazy.  i was beginning, i told myself, and that is okay.

then the woman who organized the event told us about why she is in uganda. she came here and accidentally adopted a child.  well she accidentally fell in love with a baby she knew would be hers and began a long process.  and it was a long process.  almost a year- way from her husband and her babies in the US.  in her waiting she was not stagnant.  in her waiting she was active.  she was listening.  her ugandan child was a real orphan- as in - deceased father and mother. her mother had died during her birth.  the baby's name was mercy.  mercy's muzungu mama decided to honor her baby's birth mother by fighting maternal death in uganda- to help make less orphans.  (finally- someone who thinks one solution to the orphan epidemic in east africa is to prevent the loss of mothers!) she named her ngo- "mercy for mamas" and they work to educate women and communities and provide sterile birth kits for pregnant women.

simple. effective. important. life giving. right. needed.

it doesn't need to be everything.  it doesn't need to be massive. it needs to help.

in her travels to and from uganda- she listened.  she  felt God wanted her to reach out to ex-pat missionary women serving in uganda.  so she did.

she brought a group from the US of young fun people with good singing voices and a guitar.  they will do all the mercy for mama's stuff and host three nights of encouragment in three different towns for groups of women like me- who need to hear the voices of others- who need encouragement and reminding.

then the singing started, and the wind blew and the stars shown and my voice when up and my tears came down.  i was standing at the cave.  i could here the voice in the song and the company and the communion. 

be reminded that this is why you are here.
you are here to serve in your moments- not just your months and years. 
these people around you are your village- one village- one world. ucu. luwero. reach out. it doesn't matter.  it will come. do what is right and needed and life giving and simple and important.  let me deal with effective. 

we sang and sang. i could have sung forever.  i didn't even know most of the songs but i sang anyway.  then we sat with the 5 people next to us and told our stories. i was stilled by those around me- their endurance- their courage- their commitment- their patience with the kite strings in life. and we gave thanks for our sisters here, for uganda, and for our big God who takes small people and helps them do biggish things. and we prayed for each other, reminding each other not to become lost in the mass of possibilities and needs, not to float way or become too entangled in our strings, to listen, that there are seasons.

i left with such joy, new friends, several mama birth kits, and a bag of goodies from home including starbucks via coffee and tootsie rolls (i had forgotten about tootsie rolls). i left renewed and encouraged.  and reminded that provision is often found when we use what is in front of us- when we participate in the things given to our days, when we listen to the still small voice that says 'go'- and we do.

begin again

when i was in medical school i struggled to hold all my academic kite strings.  there were so many classes, so much information, so much left brain. i couldn't sit for hours in a library taking notes neatly- i needed to spread it out- in color- i needed to engage it in pictures or with humor- anything to help it be more enjoyable and to get it into my brain.

so i began to make posters early on.  large posters.  i carried them around in a scroll and i carried around my rainbow pack of markers.  i would stretch out on the floor and in one large space cover respiratory pathogens- or how the kidney worked.  i could draw it out- write it out- see it- color it- relate it to other things- and it was fun.

today was the beautiful letdown.  that day when your guest leaves and your house is quieter and emptier- but so is your heart.  you feel far away again. and become sad that you're not going home for christmas. you breath and wonder.  why am i so far away? what are we doing? why is there so much noise in my head? and all the items you've pushed to the side while you visited, jump up and scream for attention.  today my todo list was too long and complicated and boring- and i could see the kites bouncing and blowing in the wind above me- all the pieces of my life that need sorting and deciding and time and energy. today it feels like there are so many, and their long ribboned tails are tied together- they overlap and depend on each other for the deciding and ordering.

so while i wanted to climb straight back to bed, pull the covers over my head and pray that by the time i woke up they would have magically untangled themselves, and several would have floated away- i didn't.  i got up- took rosie to school and walked up monkey hill, asking for clarity, when i should have been quiet and begging.  i walked and thought. i reasoned and listed. i ordered and re-ordered. i tried to write it out in my head- but i continually got stuck- there was a jam- the strings were knotted. i couldn't let go. 

when i came back home i remembered the scroll of posters that helped me process a lot of information. maybe i need to go back to that.  coloring out my life. so i wrote on unlined paper with markers, but that didn't help either.

then i remembered where the answers lie. 
in the stillness.
in the still small voice passing by the cave.  not the thunder, not the earthquake, not the storm or the fire- it's not in the drama of the tangled kite strings.

but what do we have to do to hear that whisper?
elijah cleared the plate. he let go, went away alone- called out and gave up. but before God spoke, he fed elijah, and elijah ate; he let him sleep, and elijah slept; he fed him again-because he knew of his journey, and elijah ate again.  elijah obeyed in the little things- the simple bits.  he listened and trusted and followed. then after a 40 day trip, God led him up a mountain and asked him a question - what are you doing here? elijah answered- not with the smart-alec answer i would have given- like 'because you told me to come up here'- but with his real answer- his problem- his struggle.  then God told him to stand on the mountain- and He came in a whisper - asking the same question- what are you doing here elijah? again he answered.  

then God revealed the plan and the promise.

i don't know what it is about the asking.  except that it's engaging and relational.  it required elijah's reflection- which reinforced his conviction, and his answer helped bring clarity and common purpose.

i need to sit in the empty house.
quiet the mind.
still the soul.
rest and eat and rest and eat and obey in the small things.  i need to listen to the question - what are you doing here? i need to go back to the beginning- before so much life happened here. i need to not feel the tug and pressure of the kite strings above me.  i need to look up, past them, into the great wide open. go back to the place where it began.

the promise hadn't changed for elijah, for the people of israel. 
the promise hasn't changed for us. 
provision. guidance. love. non-abandonment. forgiveness. redirection. relationship. joy. peace.
be still and know. I am God.

10 things to remember for a successful family vacation

we just returned from our first "real" family vacation in africa.  a safari at murchison falls in northern uganda.  this family picture- sort of sums it up- the good, the bad, the knotted-ness of 6 peoples lives constantly together for all the minutes of every day. it was wonderful- and here are the 10 things i'll remember for next time...

#1. just because it's called a vacation, doesn't mean it's your vacation:

because it's not.  actually, it's the opposite.  you will be doing more parenting than you do when you're also at work.  you will be seeing more of your children than normal, and you will accidentally have higher expectations than usual.  you will assume that because it's a safari, in africa, the giraffe in front of them should cause so much awe and wonder, that who is sitting next to whom won't matter- but it will.  and somehow this will annoy you more than it does on the car ride to school so you will say something like, "don't you realize how lucky you are to be sitting 10 feet from a giraffe in the wild- WHO CARES if zoe is sitting next to mommy?" and you will get a response like, "i don't even like giraffes!" followed by, "if i EVER had a turn with the binoculars maybe i would like them." at which point you will wonder why you brought these too young and fully undeserving children on such an extravagant get-a-way.

#2.  it's all about the ratios:

whatever activity you plan, the time spent enjoying the activity must be at least 50% longer than the time it takes to prepare for, or dismantle said activity. (moms know this.  so dads, there is no such thing as a 'sure, take a quick dip in the pool!' for 4 small children- i'm just saying.)

#3. in the car, no news is good news:

if the kids are quiet, do NOT disturb them.  DO NOT think that this is the perfect time to ask them meaningful questions- DO NOT assume that they are pensively reflecting on their year in 2nd grade or how they feel at a new school.  no.  they are either asleep, about to go to sleep, or thinking about whatever they are looking at out the window, which might cause them to fall asleep, or not, but they are somehow, momentarily.....occupied!! so tempting as it maybe to seize this moment.....LEAVE IT.  because if you make that mistake,  you will not get the answer you were looking for- you will get, "i'm huunnnngrrryy!!" and "wheeeennnnn are we going to get there?".  you will have ruined the quiet time.... and you may never get it back.

#4. remember who is in charge- YOU ARE:

that is right.  you're the boss.  just because it's a family vacation, doesn't mean the family gets to weigh in on the decision about who gets to sleep on the cot next to mom and dad, or has to go on the boat safari instead of staying at the pool with mom and rosie (please people! you swim at school!- it's a boat safari down the NILE!! see #1 again).

#5.  save your treats until your desperate:

like after your 3 year old eats lunch and says "i don't need to go poop." before the 4 hour car ride (when you know she ALWAYS poops after eating lunch)- because you will find she can suddenly go on command when promised a "sweety".

#6. have extra snacks:

so when the giant baboon snatches the entire bag of chips out of your 7 year old's hand- you have other options.

#7. water bottles are great- but they mandate bathroom breaks:

so it's best to keep a disposable plastic one in the car if you have boys and get desperate.  also remind them when they get shy and try to hold the empty water bottle upright to minimize exposure, that even though they are terribly good looking, they are only 5 and no one in the car or driving by the car, is looking.

#8. remember a long car ride, is still a long car ride:

even when there are exotic birds flying by, and warthogs in the road.

#9. what happens at home, also happens on vacation:

if you let them make forts with your living room couch cushions at home, don't be surprised when they've turned the safari lodge lounge into a giant fort while you were finishing your tea.

#10.  it's totally worth it:

there will be many moments of pure beauty and bliss.  like when you are driving through the game park, sitting in sukhasana on the roof of your car, with three of your kids surrounding you. you are then filled with love for these adorable marvelous rugrats who are creative and intelligent and themselves awe inspiring. 

besides, you will  most likely forget the other moments when you had wished the baboon grabbed them instead of the chips.

the inhabited garden

"The world is so empty if one thinks only of mountains, rivers and cities; but to know someone who thinks and feels with us, and who, though distant, is close to us in spirit; this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.”
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 

last night i awoke at that awful hour of three am.  that time when our circulating feel good hormones are at their lowest and our angst is at its highest.  all i could think about was that my mother was very far away- across a very large ocean - too far to get to quickly if something happened.  at three am, why i moved to africa made no sense.  what on earth i was doing living, growing, and planting myself on the flip side of the world from my home- seemed absurd. but it was three am, so i rolled over and went back to sleep.

a few hours later i woke up, took the kids to school and went to my friend's house to do crossfit. it was early and raining and i didn't really want to jump around in the driveway to rihanna- except that everything is bearable with community.  after our warm up jog - i was ready. bring it. because with 6 other people sprinting early in the rain, even hard and painful things become enjoyable.  

as we crunched and box-jumped and burpeed, i thought of how hard it was in the US to motivate my patients to exercise- and how they were often depressed and isolated.  i thought about the military and boot camp and how i imagine that you push yourself  harder, because how strong and endurant you are might one day,  save the life of the person doing push ups next to you.

togetherness gives us strength and accountability and often humor. we are meant to live this way. we are communal beings. sharing our lives and our mornings and our stories- this is important and energizing and healing.

at the end of the hour i was wet and muddy but happy and rejuvenated.  in the daylight i could see that our living and planting here, has grown us beautiful new communities- in mukono and kampala. with the sun shining through the last rain clouds, i could feel the huge blessing of those in my life who think and feel  and run and talk and dance with me. i still miss my mom, and my home, my people there- but i'm so thankful for all who are close in spirit- making this world a full and beautiful inhabited garden.

the chicken fingers lesson

i absolutely don't mind being wrong when someone benefits. i am happy to eat my words.  so i will. 

i was that super skeptical mom who eye-rolled during every conversation about the gluten-free, casein-free diet as the miracle cure for autistic spectrum disorders.  i would stand beside minivans at 'drop off' for special school or camp and listen to the circle of people reporting how much more alert their child was, or less aggressive, off of bread and dairy products. at the time, it looked like a bunch of overly controlling moms, refusing to accept the cards they'd been dealt, grasping for straws, paying too much attention to each little moment, and timing it with what their child had swallowed.   i would stand there feeling smug that i hadn't been duped by jenny macarthy and her followers.  it all sounded pathetic and desperate and impossible to prove. i was a doctor, there isn't good data! and she didn't have digestive problems. besides i had enough on my plate to worry about removing the two foods my child loved most-bread and milk- for at least 6 months before i even saw a difference.  but a part of me wondered, and felt terribly guilty that i wasn't willing to hop on that bandwagon. because i knew in my heart, that i too would do anything for my kid- but was also rather lazy, and way too impatient.

"oh just wait- you'll try it one day." said one the moms in her minivan with the multi-colored puzzle piece 'support autism' bumper sticker. 

'yeah right' i thought.  i'm not part of your club. we don't have that diagnosis, so maybe i'm off the hook.

but then things got worse and i became a desperate mom.  so i went to whole foods over (of all times) thanksgiving at our siblings house, and poor zoe ate rice pasta and vegetables instead of stuffing and gravy-and she ate her own special pie.  it lasted for one week, maybe.  i saw no change, so we went out for pizza. i was so glad that experiment was over, i'd tried it, and i was right.  besides, her life is hard enough with out depriving her of ice cream! 


time went by.  i became an even more desperate mom as i watched her struggle worsen.  i decided that if there was something there, at all, that if she had to eat straw for the rest of her life and i did too, but it helped her to regulate- it would be worth it.  i decided to try a redo- a long, real trial.  i wasn't expecting dramatic- just hoping for something.


so about a year and a half ago- we took her off gluten. she'd already been off dairy for a year and in that year, the digestive problems that i'd denied- improved.  (sometimes you don't know it's broken until it's fixed).  it was a slow and subtle, but there was a difference, an awakening of sorts.  i also realized that she began to grow.  i mean three inches in less than one year (more than she had grown before in that time). i wasn't completely convinced it was her diet- but i wasn't about to feed her pizza either.


at her birthday party on friday- there was a platter of chicken fingers. the real ones- breaded with regular flour.  she really wanted to eat them, and it was her birthday and i kind of wanted to see what would happen- if it actually mattered.  if maybe the past years growth (in all areas) was unrelated to diet- but a host of other possibilities.


oops....


by that evening she was beginning to fade.  on saturday, she was completely off, checked out, way back in time. i couldn't believe it. she was in a zone- a fog- requiring multiple prompts to do anything- and agitated.  oh dear. 


we talked about it.  we encouraged her to drink losts of water and eat NOTHING with gluten. EVER. AGAIN. today was better, and i'm hoping tomorrow she's be back.


so i'm sold- at least for her.  and i don't care about the science, if wearing purple every thursday is what is helping kids with different brains, i'd do that.  so much of life with zoe hasn't made sense.  modern medicine doesn't know what to do.  everything with these kids is "off label".  the bottom line is....


"Much of life can never be explained but only witnessed" - Rachel Naomi Remen, MD''

and this weekend i witnessed just how much of a difference diet makes for zoe. so i'm sorry friends who put up with my eye rolling.  i'm sorry for not believing in your desperation or your joy.  i'm sorry for my ignorance, my erroneous confidence, my disbelief in what was simply making your life better.  i'm sorry for not celebrating with you in finding a piece of that crazy colored puzzle.  and sweet zoe, i'm most sorry that i didn't feed you better for all those years before.

what blue looks like

i remember that moment when i was a kid and i look up at the sky and wondered for the first time if what i call 'blue', is the same thing that someone else calls blue?  it was a moment of great pause.  an existential dilemma- how similar or different are we from each other? are we ultimately alone? what if what looks like blue to me, and what we've both decided to call 'blue', actually looks red to you? what if our commonality is not as common as we thought? what does that mean?

i remember many times last year when i was home schooling zoe, and i was about to pull my hair out and poke out my eyeballs, florence who'd been lingering in the background, listening and very aware of our daily struggles, would say to me when i'd escaped to the kitchen, "she will be fine."

i did not find comfort in these words. 

what does that mean? what is "fine"?

blue. fine. how do we define things? how much shared meaning to our words really have?

it gave me pause again. i had to ask myself what i thought would suffice as "fine".  did it mean she'd somehow learn to sit still and work independently? did it mean she'd go to college and get married? did it require her achieving my definition of "normal"? my version of what i'd imagined life for my kids to be like?


what color does florence see when she looks at the sky? what does her blue look like? what is her "fine"? 


i think her sky is blue too.  blue like mine.  but i thought her  fine was very different. i thought her fine was alive. walking. housed. fed. loved. able to learn- even if slowly- even if differently. 

but maybe her fine was much bigger than that.  maybe her fine was spoken out of patience and wisdom and years.  maybe her fine was based on waiting, and evolution, and time.  maybe her fine is not rooted in fear, but in faith.


this week zoe turned 13.  this week i went to her first parent/teacher conference in over three years.  i sat in her chair, at her desk and waited with baited breath for the rug pull, the shoe to drop, the wind to leave my sails. but. i heard that in fact, she is fine. she is settling in well and adjusting and things are getting better each day.  i heard that she is not disruptive but participating.  that she is happy and not anxious.  i heard that she is very much fine. i wished i'd recorded the meeting because i was in such shock that i think i missed the first half of what she said.  because when i heard fine, i think i was somewhere in my kitchen last year, hearing florence calmly say,  "she will be fine." and feeling the warmth of Gods smile.


yesterday was zoe's birthday party. she was excited. she was happy and thankful and welcoming. she had friends. they played, and laughed, and ate cake.  it was fine. it was better than fine. it was fabulous.

so i think the sky is blue- brilliantly blue and it doesn't really matter if it might look differently in you're world, because we've all agreed to call it blue.  fine is more complicated. there are more interpretations, it can depend heavily on the one evaluating. 

but maybe florence's definition is right. maybe fine for our children lies in the waiting, the patience, the time, the faith, the stillness. 

'and the stillness the dancing'.

ask the questions

it is strange, this living between worlds.

i eat matoke and g-nut sauce with my fingers on the ground outside of an old church that serves as our village clinic in luwero- no bathrooms- no running water- no electricity. we eat and laugh and watch the kids run around and the fire burn and the chickens poke.

i go home to my house, with window screens and a television and nutella and peanut butter.  i drive my children through the slums of mud houses, and drainage ditches, and arrive at a new, well designed international school- where they learn all day with other kids who have TVs and cars.  they beg for a snack on the way home, then fall asleep to the bumpy ride as i drive through this tunnel of disparity, and wake them at the gate.

i love a dark brown child, who lives in my house and i tuck into bed each night. she calls me mama and likes sesame street and has more clothes than i do, while her birth mother begs on the street downtown.

i go examine a child with fever on a bench outside of her one room home as her mother washes plastic dishes beside us in the dirt. i have come from my exercise group in kampala with my friends who rejuvenate and inspire me, who work to live here and help their children process differences, and our world, and what we do about it, as their husbands work to fix the big deep problems that surround us here.  maybe it's my yoga pants and tank top that have inspired the crowd around us.   children giggle and i hear the murmurs of 'mazungu' while i listen to her lungs.  she looks like my youngest child- beautiful.

is it horrible and inconsistent?

should i have built my house of the red dirt too? with my own hands? should i be going for water, to fill my giant yellow jerry can at the pump a kilometer down the road? should i live outside between the mosquito biting hours of 7 to 11, to cook and wash, because my kitchen is outside, and only then crawl under my net?

where is my solidarity? how can i understand anything from my university provided porch? from my position of freedom? from my permanent awareness that any time, i can get up and leave it all behind?

i go out with mike each saturday  night.  it's our time. it's important for us- even if only for us- to process these things together.  should our dinner money be spent on something else? another childs school fees? more medical supplies?  or are we supporting the local economy? giving jobs and tips to servers, and guards, and babysitters, and gas station attendants? are we saving ourselves years of therapy bills by consciously talking through our life here, as middle aged americans living in east africa, trying to somehow be helpful?

these questions circle around in my mind.  they need to be asked- even if they have no answer.  they should not haunt me, but challenge and inspire me. these thoughts are relevant and universal although typically more hidden, they should be discussed over dinner tables in america even if the differences are harder to see. 

what do we do about inequality? what do we who have more, do about those who have less? and how much do we do? and does it even matter? and are we brave enough to open our eyes?

by asking, we aren't ignoring or forgetting or pretending.  by asking, we are trying. 

fifty

i think i figured it out. why being a teenager and a twenty-something is so magical.

earlier this week i was sitting on the couch next to mike. we were looking up flight information for our guest on my computer. he was right there, next to me, leaning in, his arm brushing on mine- close enough to kiss.  i was distracted by him, by the moment, by the potential in the ordinary. i wanted it to last, to hold on to this intimacy of proximity and love and attraction, that we so easily forget about.  i thought about these moments in the past- our past- how we can take things for granted when we live life together and sit next to each other all the time, and sleep with each other every night.

that time on the couch i was brought back to being 17, when the childhood ability to be completely in the present, in the now, in that moment- is still there.  it has not been buried beneath the busy.  it hasn't been lost in the distraction and multitasking and crazy of full adulthood.  the feelings and sensations are new.  they are soaked in, held, cherished.  we notice and value the heat of the arm resting on ours, the edge of the reservoir water on our bare skin, the possibilities.  life hasn't been packaged yet. 

is that what we crave at 40? do we crave the newness or just the ability to linger into moments that we fear we've lost? can we unbox our lives? unwrap them just a little?  can we sacrifice efficiency for attention, and accomplish a little less in our day- but be reminded of what we loved about being 17?  can we slow it down consciously and feel it again?  what if we tried to savor a moment of sharing something as small as our computer screen? what if we spent our energy there, instead of looking for another package?

the 50 shades of grey trilogy has been holding the top three slots on the new york times best seller list for 6 months.  why? because the writing is so good? not.  because secretly we are all into s+m? no.  because women want a super hot, filthy rich guy who verbally expresses his love and attraction, and also needs some fixing? probably.  but also we escape into the newness of love- we remember those moments that stretch on and on when you're 21 and life hasn't become too serious yet.  we love the awareness they have of each other, the attention paid to the details of each other.  the full on focus. 

when i sat on that couch with this man i've loved for 24 years- i allowed myself to be right there with him, to stop and take notice- like i used to before years and complications were added- i gave myself permission to be momentarily undone.  to care more about his presence right there, than i did about the information we were collecting on the screen. and there is something life giving in regarding the details of the moments in our lives.

we should take time to savor things we love and have loved.  because i think we can.  we can choose to slow it down, to dissemble the years, and bend the edges of our box, awaken the senses and enjoy the layers of our moments, and the shades of the ones we've loved long.

13

13 years ago i was in labor.  that was a long time ago- a day of transformation and beginnings. a moment when someone arrives- and when a part of my body began traversing the earth on it's own.  forever connected- forever spent understanding that connection- navigating self and other- moving way, returning - learning independence and dependance, relationship.  that day of labor might have been the easiest part of these years- but even that wasn't easy. 

by the end of my pregnancy, i was on bed rest, she was too small they thought, she needed to come out they said, so she did. one month early.  zoe rode right side up for the eight months she lived in me- showing both her dislike for being upside-down and her strong will.  about this time 13 years ago, i'd had some chinese voodoo turning procedure and zoe had been "successfully inverted" - her head was down- she was "ready".

but was she? (i will always wonder).


was i?

i was induced and along with it came all the stressful labor things that tend to happen, especially to medical people and especially to those who have been given concerning beginnings like- "IUGR", and when things are being forced when nature isn't ready.  poor zoe, we didn't start well, listening to you.

you see what you look for and you look for what you know. things were "known", so things were over looked for, and found.  she had all variations of "decels"on the monitoring strip, so there was a scalp electrode screwed into her head, i had an amnio infusion to be sure the cord wasn't smooshed. the pitocin was cranked up. oh zoe, we disturbed you.  we moved you around, and poked you, and pushed you- was this where it started? have the last 13 years been spent defending a bothered sensory system? i will always wonder what your life would be like if we'd left you alone. 

and finally at 6 pm on september 11th, zoe shot out into the world, surprising everyone with her non-IUGR birthweight, her preemie ears, her fuzzy black hair, and tiny calamari tentacle hands. my beautiful zoe- life, fullness- in a little 5 pound bundle.

the birthing of our children is in stages- the labor continues for decades.  the pain changes, the process changes, the knowing and loving deepen- as does the joy.  it doesn't get easier, but it grows in it's value and passion. we transform each other. we move and speak in relation, in reaction. we journey together.


this day, today, starts another chapter- because we've decided it does- she is a teenager. we begin the years of further differentiation, of moving a step further apart- which may make the coming back together much more special, the connection potentially greater. 

for years, i've fear this time.  i was full of "what if's" and "oh no's" and anxiety about what might not happen, of how different it would be for her, for us.  for years i was in denial about somethings and wrongly convinced of other things.  for years i wasn't sure how to look at zoe, how to interpret her, how to package it all.  for years i was overwhelmed and in response i was a massive pendulum- i spent years swinging back and forth. 

three years ago when her challenges collided into an enormous mess and i stopped some of the noise in my life and slowed way down- i began to really see her.  my pendulum stopped swinging.  out of that darkness i began to live in my days, my hours, our now. it was a great big beginning - a hard, painful, beginning for both of us.  it was labor- a valuable necessary labor. 

transformation usually hurts.  it just does.  birthing hurts- but oh the joy that follows- holding that warm new child- the awe- the purity and goodness- the potential- the attachment.  life beginning, life changing. out of darkness came light- out of hard times came writing. a new birthing- that without zoe, may never have arrived.

now, in this next season, the sun has come out.  we have moved along, we have a better understanding and knowledge and acceptance. i'm learning bit by bit that there will be movement forward and backward, sometimes it will be leaps, other times tiny tip-toed steps- but in patience and trust we will go forth. 

i picked her up early yesterday from school. it was lunch time. she didn't sit at the table with the girls from her class but on the steps in the sun eating her gluten and dairy free homemade lunch.  a girl several grades younger sat beside her and they talked together.  zoe was calm and happy.  aware of herself.  knowing her needs- when to engage and when to retreat.  i'm so proud of her.

here she is. 13. at school. taking risks.  being brave. not much has come easy for her- all of her milestones have taken much effort and work- but her sweetness, her genuine love of life and people, her joy- that was all there on the day she was born- and i love to watch her bloom.

listen because sometimes they know

there was a time a few years back when i was terrified of writing that zoe'd had a good day.  i was convinced that i would jinx it.  it wasn't very hard to avoid this, because there weren't that many good days to write about, as she wasn't having many. but there were plenty of hard times, moments when i wondered if i would ever feel close to normal again.

this week, i've begun to feel what i remember to be, normal. and. it's. fabulous.  i spent the early part of the week elated but holding my breath. so happy that each day, my phone didn't ring, there were  no tears, and i wasn't hearing anything bad at pick up.  i was figuring no news was good news- or at least not horrible news- but inside i was wondering what no news really meant.  i wondered as i wrote about her being on the student council, if the joke would be on me, and today i would hear the truth about how much she is struggling, today i would here that she wasn't elected to student council, but assigned, to give everyone a break for an hour each thursday. basically, half of me was thrilled, and the other half was waiting for the shoe to drop.

but it hasn't it.

instead i heard that she's doing better each day.  that she's settling well.  that things are moving in the right direction.  and the weird thing is, they are better at home too.  i assumed that if she was able to "handle" school, she'd definitely fall apart at home.  i figured that we'd have to put up with 5 hours of evening torture as she unwound after holding it together all day. instead, she follows directions more easily, needs fewer reminders, and is calmer, more pleasant and less agitated. there are less sticky thoughts and less force laughter and less arguing about getting in the shower and bedtime and less fighting with her siblings.  it's basically been a great week.

when zoe was nine and things were not easy, she told me she wanted to get her ears pierced. i was fine with her age, but i couldn't believe that this kid, with her scratchy-i-won't-wear-jeans-don't-comb-my-hair sensory system, would want either the piercing or the feeling of earrings.  i told her all that.  she said she was ready- really- and that i should believe her.  i decided she deserved a chance- but said that she couldn't get one ear pierced and change her mind- it was all or nothing.  "deal" she'd said.

she was right. i was amazed.  she tolerated it and has never once complained about her ears or her earrings. 

i think going back to school has been like getting her ears pierced.  she knew.  she was ready.  she was done with homeschooling and even though it was risky and scarey and emotionally scratchy- the balance was tipped in favor of school.  she knew before i did.  and just like the earrings, i'm totally surprised, and proud of her.

it's a good reminder to listen to our kids carefully.  to trust them on somethings, even when they're not yet 10.  maybe this is especially true for kids who are different, who don't make their milestones in the correct order or at the right times.  the ones we fear lack the ability to make good executive decisions.  but sometimes they know.  sometimes they are ready. sometimes they know and we don't. 

it still all might fall apart.  next week could be a total disaster. but actually, not totally- because we've had this week.  we've been reminded.  we've been surprised- okay i have- i think she knew it would be fine all along.

what zoe teaches me

somedays you wake up with a migraine and you say "no way.  not today" even though you want to desperately crawl back into bed.  somedays you swallow your pill and put on your sneakers and you go to crossfit- because you know you need to. because you can't let IT rule, besides you'll feel poorly either way, so you might as well move your body and see your friends while feeling bad.  that is what i did today and i'm so glad.


a wise friend once asked me why i thought i was "given" migraines.  it was an interesting question.  why is this the particular thorn in my side? and if i'm stuck with it, how can i learn from it, how can i use it for goodness? 


so i thought about it.....migraines help me to understand suffering better.  they remind me to be much more thankful than i ever was before, for days without pain, they remind me to pray for people who suffer.  but they also help me to understand zoe better- they are unpredictable, they often take over, they make me feel crabby and helpless, they can somedays fill me with self-pity.   i also know there are some things i can do and take, and some things i can avoid, to help myself not get headaches. and i know that my participation or avoidance of these things is frustrating and unfair.  zoe also knows this for herself. these are things that zoe feels too. we have this in common.  migraines help me to know a part of her life that i wouldn't be able to know if i wasn't "given" this "gift".

i wish i didn't have them.  i wish zoe didn't struggle with nonverbal learning disorder. but these things are part of our life, like it or not, and we have to do the best we can with them.

maybe today i got out of bed with that throbbing head and put on my exercise clothes because of zoe- because of her example to me- because of her strength and ability to press on- even when it hurts and or is scarey.  maybe because she gets herself up in these mornings, a week before she turns 13, and goes to a school where nobody else in her class struggles to learn, or has trouble filtering out sounds, or can't ride a bike, or has to wear a special seamless tag-less uniform.  maybe i found the courage to get up and go because i was going for an hour, and she has the courage to get up and go all day. every. single. day.


today when i picked her up, this is what i saw:

she said, "mom! i'm the student council representative for my class! it's a real honor."
what??

"yes it is zoe! that is great! i'm so proud of you."
wow. 
she doesn't just get up and go, she doesn't just blend in, this girl shines. 

i

my morning alone

there i was, basking in it.  a silent, empty house.  home alone and the best kind of alone. alone without the prospect of anyone coming home until i get them.  a very different type of alone than i'm used to: that which occurs in 15 minute chunks, followed by a punch related bloody nose, or the need for a snack of olives, or to be informed that the turtle has escaped again.  i was enjoying the time that lasts longer than quarterly segments, but is mostly magnificent because it lacks the constant potential for interruptions, which unnerves me much more than the interruptions themselves.

it's the anticipation of small peoples needs that makes it hard for me to relax.  or finish a thought. or achieve needed clarity.

i was sitting in the fullness of this day- this first day since the start of school when florence has the day off, rose began pre-school, mike is at work, and i have been home. all. alone. i was dreaming of the possibilities, after my walk up the hill and my second cup of coffee, of what i could do with a few days a week like this.  basically, i could conquer my world.  i could return to painting, i could exercise regularly, i could write my book, i could finally learn lugandan, study for the internal medicine re-certification boards, get my garden going, cook my way through julia child, organize the boys closet disaster. the options were endless and i was excited.

so of course this day, after a mere 2 hours of freedom, i had a meeting with the head of the university. my light and breezy new found attitude based on the recently arrived upon reality of having some overdue alone time, was weighted down with a lot of needs, with another reality. really? on this day?
it would have been nice to continue the dream.  to have just a morning a week of pretending i'm retired, but in the best possible way (with out the longing for what was, because it will be in a few short hours).

but.

i know i didn't come to africa to become a really good cook, or the mastermind of lego/ army men organizational systems.  i came here to help where i can, to give my time and what little talent i may have, to teach what i know, to make the world somehow smaller, because God loves us all the same and wants poverty to end, and justice to happen, and wrongs to be righted.

this day, as all days are, was orchestrated from above. the vice chancellor didn't know that zoe had just started school.  he didn't know we had rose or that she had started pre-school.  he just knew our intentions in coming here, my CV, his needs, and thought he'd ask, see what might be possible. 

it will require some good alone thinking time, praying time, asking what can-and-should-i-do time. this new season of something. my season of transitioning myself as i transition my littles. it's again about finding the balance, holding the tension of the opposites as they pull at us, maintaining the pose.  it's about helping with out burning out.  it's about remembering that my family comes first- but i don't need to hide out and wait for their possibly neediness to be revealed. 

trust. be. try. give. hold. let go.  and always, savor the stillness.

happiness is....

i loved this book when i was a kid. i think if i had it now i'd love it even more.  it reminds me that really, it's the little things, that make us smile the most.

today...
happiness is a watching a rain storm on the porch.
and a cup of afternoon coffee.
and the sound of giggling.

happiness is the end of a migraine headache.
and a hug from my boy.
and a toothless smile.

happiness is zoe getting up and ready for school with out much prompting.
and hearing "it went well today."
and watching her dose off in the car on the way home from a day at school, knowing how much that must mean to her and to me.

happiness is the sun coming out again.
and the sound of rain falling from leaves.
and the shiny diamond-like drops everywhere.

happiness is having no drama today.
and sparkly lip gloss.
and a full moon.

happiness is beginning a new book.
and reading an old poem.
and a phone call from a friend.

happiness is a pair of jeans.
and a lisacoris necklace.
and no shoes.

happiness is getting a letter.
and a cup of milk tea at night.
and snuggling with the one you love.

happiness is getting really muddy.
and then taking a bath.
and the sound of the bubbles popping.

happiness is remembering cool sand on bare feet.
and the sound of the ocean.
and finding a pretty shell.

happiness is doing the best you can.
and being still.
and listening.

happiness is being okay with mistakes.
and learning.
and letting go.

happiness is.......

pleased as punch

today was rosie's first day of "school" and let's just say she was pleased as punch.  last week when ambrosoli started and the other three were settling in- she was jealous- she so badly wanted to be in the pack- it hurt my heart a little.  but our funds were too short for her to go to international school this semester, so she is going to "school" at the campus daycare.  i think as long as she is getting out of the house to be with a group of other kids, she is happy. 

today she was up with everyone, waiting by the door. she looked so big and happy and ready. it was adorable.  and that little pink thing in her hair? that is the tiniest pigtail i've ever made. but again, pleased as punch.

with the big kids off and my littlest one now at school too, i felt newness breathe into me, and it was delicious.  it's a newness that i'm beginning to embrace but it requires courage. 

"courage to change the things i can...."

it's easy to bury that mustard seed of faith in the palm of my hand and grip it with all my might as i anxiously await things to fall apart.  as i sit, tightly wound, and prepare for the worst.  as i allow my greatest fears of what could happen keep me immobilized.  "what if i start something, and then zoe can't handle school?"  "what if i commit, and then have to back down?"  it's scarey.  it's risky. it could go terribly wrong.  yes.  all true.  but.

in life, we are invited to step out in faith, not to hide in fear.  we are asked to be bold, to trust, to take a chance.  i was walking down from monkey hill the other day, thinking about what to do next with my days with all kids going to school, and there is such great need medically in uganda.  i was trying to be reasonable, to be thoughtful, to consider the possibilities.  then i heard it: plant the seed. make your move.  put your time where your words are.  step out in faith.

when the Israelites stood before the open red sea, parted for them to cross, they had to step out into the  mire. God moved the water, but couldn't cross it for them.  they needed to walk on their trembling legs across that sandy path.  imagine it. water piled up on each side, something they never expected, something very scarey and new, a situation rampant with the potential for disaster. they walked and they kept on walking.  if it were me, i'd have been running. fast.

i don't think God cares if we are running through the bottom of the red seas's of our life, or stopping to meditate in the middle- as long as we enter in- as long as we trust- and get muddy.  goodness comes with the combination of the open sea and the walking.  it comes with an invitation for zoe to attend school, and my ability to let my girl go, and to let myself go.  it comes with a willingness to open my hands and to plant my little mustard seed of faith.

so i'm breathing into this- i'm holding my arms open in a yoga pose - reaching out for stillness and embracing a new season.  maybe i'll be pleased as punch.




 

goats on the roof

driving up to north carolina from atlanta, we used to pass by a store selling local items called 'goats on the roof'.  we all loved it, especially the kids, because there really were goats on the the roof- and it was really funny.

in uganda it seems goats are everywhere, tied by their foot on the side of a road, or running freely in the street.  they eat everything and anything- and even though they are not usually on a roof- they are still very funny to me and i still point them out as we drive.  this baffles mike because of their abundance - but the kids are still interested.

a few weeks back i read an autobiography of a missionary doctor in africa.  in one chapter he discloses his obsession with ridding the hospital campus of its pesky wandering goats.  basically peoples goats would roam around and make there way to the hospital yard and patio and leave their goat droppings everywhere which isn't very sanitary.  this guy became so irritated that he bought an air pellet gun, which he carried with him on rounds, firing at a meandering buck from whatever window he was standing near. his goal was to frighten the goats away- but it didn't really work- the goats just avoided him.  people kind of thought he was crazy- he even accidently killed one which caused some trouble.  in retrospect, he can write about it and laugh.  but at the time, he needed those goats to be gone.  he needed to succeed at something.  he needed to have some control.

i get that.  that need that can result in an obsession over something as silly as goats, or refusing to let the public taxi cut in front of you because they are endangering the lives of all their passengers by passing you into oncoming traffic (even though the refusal is much more likely to put peoples lives in danger than cause behavior change). 

i so understand that feeling of, 'OH NO YOU DON"T!'  that crazy feeling in your chest- that george banks moment in the grocery store when he rips open the bag of hotdog buns and refuses to pay for the "extra's" (because the number of hotdogs per pack is 8 and there are 12 buns per pack- and he is just done).   those moments born out of experiencing a global loss of control.

once i was at the market and i saw a muzungu lady lose it.  she was looking for something and someone who worked there was trying to convince her to buy something similar because they didn't have exactly what she wanted. she had a moment.  a loud embarrassing unraveling moment.  an 'i'm so done with this place' moment. i remember thinking at first, 'wow lady! get a grip!' then feeling badly for her- knowing that it was probably her last straw- and i do know how that feels.

because here- life is just harder.  it's more frustrating. there are more things to lose it over.  the convenience factor is missing and it's been replaced by large stumbling blocks.  it's not that things aren't easy- it's that they are actually much more difficult.  whether it's grocery shopping or orchestrating someones diabetes medications or teaching appropriate healthcare- life for a westerner living in east africa- can be incredibly frustrating. 

so can living life with a nonverbal learning disorder.

something clicked today as i was reflecting on my morning in the car with zoe, while the rest of the family headed into church (which meets at the kids school).  she was having a moment over me helping her remove an umbrella that was stuck under the car seat.  she just couldn't get over my needing to help her.  it all sounded absurd to me-
"oh for pete's sake, it's an umbrella, it was stuck, who cares!" i was so tempted to say, but i didn't, i just sat there getting rained on and waited and tried hard not to worry.  but i was worried.  i was so scared that we've pushed her too far by putting her in school, that she'll slowly disintegrate, that tomorrow she'll refuse to go back, and i am powerless.

"mom, i'm just having a hard time today." she cried.

of course she is. it's not just a stuck umbrella- it's everything that is new for her right now and her constant sense of being out of control in life - that feeling of being swallowed by it. i understand. goats, hot dog buns, taxi drivers,  sales people, umbrella's- they are just recipients of our desire to have some control- because we are faced with such a loss of it.  we grapple.

"that's okay zoe.  i get it.  you're allowed, there is a lot going on." i mustered while silently praying: help! me, her. help us down here!

"i'm afraid that i can't do it.  that i'll go in and be mean and awful."  there it was out loud.  she fears her lack of control- her inability to control herself.

"i'll be with you- just come in and sit with me." was i pushing her too much? should i just stay with her in the car?

but i could hear the music playing and i wanted to go and sing my broken hallelujah. so. badly.
i began to sing.

"don't sing mom!"

"but zoe i need to sing, just like i need to pray, to get through these things- these sticky moments we all have, when we feel helpless and we hate it. i need to say help and i need to sing. lets go."

"if i go in, can i stay with the bunnies?"

"yes- good idea." 

so we walked in with our umbrellas, and our helplessness.  she headed for the rabbit pen and i headed for a seat in the back alone- thankful for the songs and the rain and a community of other people who also sing broken hallelujahs.

it's not going to be easy- anywhere for anyone.
but it is going to be worth it.  ♥